


Be A Better Man

by tristesses



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Drugs, Humiliation, Impact Play, M/M, Psychological Torture, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Fischer is not a better man than his father. Arthur learns this the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be A Better Man

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20092.html?thread=48685180#t48685180) on inception_kink, because of course my first foray into this fandom would be with graphic non-con the likes of which I haven't written in years.

"He sold you out, you know."

Arthur blinks muzzily and coughs, the world a blur before it coalesces into something recognizable: a ceiling, white, completely ordinary, with a single fan a little to the left of his field of vision, the blades slicing the air lazily. It's his ceiling. He moves his fingers, which takes a lot more effort than he thinks it should, and digs his nails into the short stubble of the carpet. His carpet. He's in his apartment. Or they are, rather. There's another voice here, only a little familiar.

Arthur turns his head - _fuck_ , his jaw hurts - and rasps, "What did you say?"

"I said," says the man in the chair, running a gun along his thigh and watching Arthur with hooded blue eyes, "that your partner sold you out."

 _Eames._

"You're lying," Arthur shoots back, and tries to hoist himself off the ground. Robert Fischer makes a little gesture with the gun, finger on the trigger, and Arthur freezes. He moves back to the floor.

"There's a good boy," says Fischer, condescension dripping off each vowel. "Don't try to move. I think I gave you a concussion when I knocked you out."

Arthur touches his jaw, looks at the gun in Fischer's hand. "Getting pistol-whipped can do that to you."

Arthur's nerves are humming, his head stuffed with cotton, but he forces himself to think, dammit, figure out what the fuck to do next -

"What did you do to Eames?" he asks, buying some time. Fischer merely smiles, and rises, going to investigate the tschotskes lining the counter between Arthur's kitchen and living room. His gun dangles at his side, and Arthur's eyes flick towards it. Fischer's barely holding it, and he's small, probably hasn't taken a self-defense class in his life, easy to overwhelm. Arthur shifts, gathers his strength, and lunges -

\- but his knees give out and so do his arms when he tries to break his fall, and he ends up sprawled across the floor.

"You drugged me."

Fischer laughs, and Arthur hates him for it.

"Yeah," he says, still amused. "Seem familiar?"

"I don't know what you're - " Arthur begins, but Fischer's face transforms into ugly rage, and he explodes at Arthur, hitting him again with the hand holding the gun, kicking him hard in the ribs, the point of his shoe landing in just the right spot to make Arthur roll over and wheeze. Fischer flings him onto his back and straddles him, shoving the barrel of the gun under his chin.

"I asked you," he says, lips drawn back in a sneer, "if this feels fucking familiar."

Arthur grits his teeth and doesn't respond, and after a moment Fischer's face relaxes into the neutral, businesslike expression Arthur's seen in a dozen newspapers. It scares him more than Fischer's anger.

"Of course it doesn't," he says, and twists the gun, pushing deeper into the fleshy part of Arthur's chin. "You've never been poisoned by a complete stranger in a place you thought was safe. You've never been _raped_ \- " At this, Arthur begins to struggle, but Fischer leans his full weight against Arthur's chest, his forearm sliding against Arthur's throat, and he chokes, " - and yes, that was what it was, rape with a needle instead of a dick, but you still fucked up my head and you don't know what that's like, you fucking cunt, but now you will."

"Fuck, no," Arthur gasps, and Fischer digs his elbow harder against Arthur's larynx. "Don't - "

"Keep begging," says Fischer, and rolls his hips against Arthur's, and - oh, shit, he's fucking _hard_ , what the hell, the sick fuck is hard and pressing his cock against Arthur's stomach. "I'd ask you to kiss me, but I don't think we're quite at that stage yet, are we?"

Black spots dance across Arthur's eyes; his body is responding to the oxygen deprivation and to the friction of Fischer rubbing against his crotch. Fischer laughs at him, and grinds down, and Arthur thinks, _Aphrodisiacs, has to be, no other explanation,_ but he can't think of a single one that would have these effects.

"Hmm, quicker than I expected," Fischer murmurs, almost thoughtful, and he leans down to kiss Arthur right when he releases the pressure against Arthur's throat; Arthur gasps, but Fischer won't let him breathe; he takes his open mouth as an invitation instead and kisses him, all tongue and teeth, biting at his lips, and Arthur is crying. He's crying. _Fuck._

"Nice," Fischer comments when he finally pulls away, then slaps him across the face. "And nicer still. I like the tears. They add a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to the overall picture."

Arthur twists, trying to avoid looking Fischer in the eye, but Fischer grabs his face and forces him to make eye contact. His hand with the gun had gone lax, but now he presses the barrel hard against Arthur's forehead, indenting a ring into his skin.

"You're fucking crazy," Arthur breathes.

"Maybe," Fischer concedes with a shrug. "But that's your fault, too."

He stands up, managing to look menacing despite his height and the tent in his immaculately-pressed trousers, and says, "Get up," with a flick of his gun.

Arthur does, slowly this time, and stands without measuring his full length on the floor again. He watches Fischer closely. The man doesn't hold a gun like he's used to it. All Arthur needs is an opening.

"And don't try to fight me," Fischer says, with a slight smirk. "I have two bodyguards here who will take you down the instant they hear any trouble. They're in the bedroom," he adds, as if Arthur had asked. "I want some semblance of privacy, at least at first. Take off your clothes."

Arthur stares at him numbly. He'd known this was coming, known it the instant the word rape had crossed Fischer's tongue, but there is a fucking abyss between knowing something and doing it - no, having it _done_ to him, the difference is important.

Fischer raises his eyebrows at him, a trace of impatience in his eyes, and Arthur fumbles with the buttons on his shirt. He all but tears it off, desperate to get this over and done with. _If he'll even let me go._

"Slowly, slowly," cautions Fischer. He's leaning against the counter, watching Arthur with predatory amusement. "Try to at least make it look like you're halfway interested."

"I'm not," Arthur snarls, and drops his belt on the ground.

"No, toss that here." He does, and Fischer picks it up, snapping it and nodding. "As for interest…we'll see about that when you pull down those trousers."

It's terrible, it's awful and it's fucked up and it makes Arthur want to curl up in a ball and hide, but he's half-erect and he knows Fischer will take that as an invitation, an excuse -

Arthur steps out of his pants and underwear, and Fischer hums low in his throat.

"Christ," he says, admiring. "You're gagging for it, aren't you? And here I thought this was going to be a punishment."

"Just fuck me and get it over with," Arthur snaps, and ducks his head to hide his red face and his tears. He clenches his hands into fists at his side, cursing his traitorous, trembling fingers.

"That's not the point," says Fischer, and moves toward Arthur, circling him like he's examining livestock. "My physical pleasure is just a happy side effect of the main goal, which is to cause you as much pain as possible."

Without warning, he hits Arthur in his already-bruised jaw and grabs him by the hair, dragging him over to the counter and flinging him against it, scattering little figurines everywhere. The jutting curve of the countertop is like a fist to the gut, and while he's still blinking the pain away, Fischer leans down and picks up the belt.

"What, are you gonna beat me?" Arthur pants, a sort of suicidal hysteria overtaking him. "Gonna spank me like you wish Daddy did to you - "

"Shut the fuck up," Fischer spits, and he wrenches Arthur's arms back, pushing them so his elbows touch, straining the muscles. "No, I'm not going to hurt you like that. You can take pain, it's your job. What you can't take is being _helpless_."

Just like that, Arthur knows, and he goes berserk with fear, struggling and fighting and nearly clipping Fischer in the jaw with his skull, but Fischer slams his head onto the countertop, hard enough to make his vision blur, and Arthur sobs once, subsiding. He buries his teeth in his lip to keep himself from making any other noises. Fischer finishes wrapping the belt around his arms, and checks the give, testing to see if there's any way to escape. There isn't.

"Turn over," Fischer orders, and Arthur obeys, flipping onto his back, allowing himself to be pushed along the countertop so his arms are pinned even more painfully and his head is dangling in open space. Arthur shuts his eyes, and thinks of slipping from this position and breaking his neck. If there was a way to be certain it would kill him, he'd do it. Better than this.

A familiar popping sound makes his eyes fly open, and Arthur twitches as Fischer pours lube on his fingers.

"This isn't for your benefit," Fischer says, misinterpreting Arthur's stare. "It's better for me this way. Though I expect you'll enjoy it, too."

He's laid the gun on the counter, a few feet away from Arthur, but Arthur's hands are fucking tied behind his back and he can't get it, he can't fucking get it, there's nothing he can do, and now Fischer is stroking his hole, gently caressing it before sinking two fingers deep inside him. Arthur bites through his lip even as his back arches in response, blood spilling into his mouth, and he chokes and turns his head to spit it on the tile.

"Practically no fight at all," Fischer notes, sliding in another finger alongside the other two. "You must be very used to this."

And then he leans down and - Arthur tosses his head back, as if not looking would make it go away, would make Robert Fischer not wrap his lips around the head of Arthur's hard cock, not tease his slit with a flickering tongue, not take him deep and swallow right as he twists his fingers and rubs against Arthur's prostate -

Arthur keens, unable to help himself, and Fischer slides off and out of him, gripping the base of Arthur's cock hard to keep him from coming. His eyes are wild and his cheeks are flushed, lips red and puffy, but his voice is cold and controlled even as he touches Arthur on the cheek with sticky fingers.

"I want to see your face while I fuck you," he says, and runs a fingertip along Arthur's bruised, swollen jaw. "I want to look you in the eye when I make you come."

"Oh God," Arthur whispers, and Fischer places a kiss against his inner thigh, incongruously tender. "Oh God, oh God - "

When Fischer thrusts in, Arthur cries out; he can't help it, he fucking hates himself for it but he can't help it, can't stop grunting with each thrust, breaking his rule of silence, letting Fischer know just how much _he's_ breaking. Fischer is murmuring things to him, cruel, perverse things said in a shaky, tight voice, but Arthur isn't paying attention; he's caught between arousal and terror, pleasure and self-loathing, stretched into a narrow string plucked by Fischer's expert hands, mind washed blank, senseless except for the excruciating sensations between his legs. Climax curls inside him, and when it hits, he thrashes and starts crying deep, racking sobs. Fischer pulls out none too gently, though he hasn't finished; instead, he walks around the counter to Arthur's head, and waits for a moment.

"Open your mouth," he finally says with a sigh.

 _Why, gonna fuck me there, too?_ Arthur wants to say, but his jaw drops open and no words come out.

Fischer doesn't fuck his throat, though, just stands there for a minute, working his cock with his own hands, his breathing labored. Arthur's brain isn't running at its usual rate, so by the time he realizes what's happening, Fischer is already covering his face and hair with sticky white fluid, the only other indication of his orgasm a hiss between his teeth. Arthur's mouth is open, just like he'd been told. He can't find the will to shut it.

Fischer zips up and stands there for a moment, gazing at Arthur contemplatively.

"That wasn't nearly as satisfying as I'd expected," he says after a moment, then glances up and jerks his head in an obvious command. The story about the bodyguards wasn't a lie; Arthur can hear them walking closer before they pick him up like a child's toy and untie his arms, laying him down on the floor. Arthur's arms are like lead, the result of muscles being strained past reasonable endurance. He wants to fight, but he can barely move.

 _Helpless._

Arthur hears the characteristic sound of a magazine being emptied before Fischer steps into view. He drops the gun by Arthur's head. His pale eyes are unreadable.

"If you're thinking about going to the police, don't," he says. "One, it would be very stupid for a man of your questionable legality to do, and two...well, there is nothing money can't buy. The price of one untested rape kit among thousands is pocket change to me. You'd have no proof."

Arthur turns his head away.

"I think we're done here," he hears Fischer saying, and the bodyguards shuffle out of the room in response. Arthur lies on the floor and stares at the top half of a matryoshka doll with its innards spilled all over. Eames had bought that for him in St. Petersburg, years ago.

"Five million."

Fischer's dispassionate voice rings in his ear; he hadn't known the man was still there. Against his better judgement, he asks hoarsely, "What?"

"Five million was the price of your location," Fischer elaborates. "Cheaper than I'd expected, actually. But he does have children to protect, so I see why he agreed so quickly."

 _Children._

Arthur thinks about the empty gun next to him. He thinks about his phone, one room and a thousand miles away. He thinks about his best friend and he thinks about his lover ( _partner is such a flexible term_ ).

Fischer shuts the door and walks out of Arthur's life.

Arthur shuts his eyes and prays for dreams.


End file.
